


Suicidal Idealizations: A Booker DeWitt Story

by causticinfinites



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/causticinfinites/pseuds/causticinfinites
Summary: Booker DeWitt has lived too long, too many lives, and through many doors he will try to end his life, but there is always someone watching out for him.Triggers included in story tags.





	Suicidal Idealizations: A Booker DeWitt Story

 

Booker was alone tonight, but he was alone every night.  He stared out the window of his filthy office and saw the obstructed view of the city.  Run down and broken, just like he was.  He had lost every damn dollar he had in gambling and struggled tooth and nail to get a job, to find work.... But he couldn't.  He failed at that too. 

 

He started having the PTSD induced dreams again, nightmares, really.  The screams of men, women and children that burned inside their teepees, the cry of hundreds of Indians at the unjust actions performed against them.  He woke up from the nightmares each night with cold sweats, sick to his stomach. He didn't know how to fix this, he just knew how to repress it all with a bottle or six of alcohol.  

 

He stayed up all night, every night, drinking until he couldn't stand anymore. The truth was, Booker hated every goddamn thing about himself, he couldn't even look at himself in the mirror anymore, because all he saw looking back at him was a fucking monster.  A monster who killed innocent people just because he didn't want to be... himself. 

 

He took a deep breath, he supposed he drank to forget, but there was a part of him that hoped it would lead to his grave, alcohol was a poison after all, and if there was one man deserving of that... it was him. 

 

Tonight it was the same thing, he watched the bottles pile up on the floor, He watched the ceiling with blank eyes as he downed another, and another, and another fucking bottle of alcohol.  It was hard stuff, the light stuff didn't cut it for him anymore.  

 

He never threw up from alcohol, not while he was drinking anyway, the next mornings weren't always the worst either, he was an alcoholic for twenty odd years, his body had gotten used to the poison.   Was he happy? 

 

Well it felt like he was still as fucked up as ever, only it dulled his senses, it dulled his memories too, it made him feel like life was flying by. 

 

He asked himself if he was happy every goddamn night, he lied to himself too, but in the back of his mind there was an overbearing scream telling him to fix himself, to find a way out, followed by a scared whisper "I don't want to feel" The two voices fighting in the back of his mind balance themselves out, he reasoned, they left him with a destructive careless substance that dictacted his actions.

 

He was most certainly not happy. 

 

He was shuffling through papers on his desk, rejected requests for work and more shit he didn't have the time to read, his eyes were glazing over, He was barely buzzed but he sure was tired as all hell.  He wanted to sleep, but pain overtook his heart and he felt so trapped he couldn't breathe. 

 

There was a part of him that felt relief, he wanted to feel his breath trapped inside his body, he wanted to feel his body shut down, Booker DeWitt wanted to die. 

 

Unfortunately for Booker, the universe, the Gods, or some other entity had other plans, as Booker found out that night.   He had a gun, of course he had a gun... It was messy, disgusting, did he really want to go out this way?  Fuck it, he was too much of a wimp to even begin to pull that trigger.

  
He had alcohol, of course, but it was killing him far too slowly for his liking.  He laid his head down on the desk as the tremors started, Booker was so far gone that he had withdrawal symptoms while he was drinking.  For fuck's sake, he just wanted it to be over, he just wanted his punishment to end. 

 

He remembered the pills in the little trunk he shoved underneath his bed, lots of pain killers that were so strong they knocked him out when he took a handful of them once, If he took a whole bottle, He was sure they'd kill him.  He pushed the bottles off the table angrily and sauntered over to the trunk, opening it slowly due to his drunken state.  His eyes were blurry and he felt dizzy.   He grabbed the pills and remembered the strict warning not to mix with alcoholic beverages. 

 

"Fuck it" He said, he was right about to take them, to end this miserable life when he saw a letter addressed to him laying at the top of the trunk.  "What the hell is this?" He asked the empty room and dropped the pills to pick up and open the envelope.  He struggled to read the note and had to reread over sections several times before understanding them.

 

_Booker,_

_You do not know me and we will never meet, but I know you and your story.  I know about the horrible things you've done, Wounded Knee, peking. I know that you have so many regrets for the things you have done, and I know that if you are reading this you are about to try to kill yourself._

_Please, Booker... I beg you to reconsider, I know that you are a good man with a good heart who has made bad choices, I know that the darkest version of you isn't who you truly are, that man has no resemblance to you, that man is a failure who accepted his cowardice and racism.   You are not that man and you never will be._

_I know this letter may not make any sense, but it does not need to.  I need you to know that someone out in the infinite universe cares about you and believes you to be a good man, you do not need to drown yourself in alcohol Booker._

_Please, for me, and for yourself.  Endure and survive.  That is all I ask of you._

_Endure, and survive._

Booker folded the letter and pulled himself up to trudge over to his desk, where he sat for what seemed like ages. He stared at the bottles, the pills he spilled out over the floor and then he repeated the letter to himself word for word until past four am.  "Endure and survive" He took a breath. 

 

Someone in the world was looking out for him, and Booker DeWitt lived another day. 

 


End file.
